Irish Stout

As I sip away my fourth tankard of the finest Irish stout I could find in this godforsaken town, I glance indifferently towards the window. It’s raining. It’s always raining when you’re down, so cliché it hurts. It’s not cliché when it’s happening to you, they say.

I don’t know why I just don’t go through with it already. The last notes cramped in my wallet are reserved for my daily dose of booze and cigarettes. Smoking isn’t something particularly healthy to me, yet I don’t think they pose a tangible threat. I’m pretty sure I’ll die before contracting cancer or my heart refusing to deal with the reduced amount of oxygen in my erythrocytes.

I shat my pants – for no particular reason besides utter laziness and the perpetual state of indifference I’m stuck in. I didn’t feel the necessity to make the ten step journey to the bathroom to relieve myself. I shat my pants because it all seems so pointless. I didn’t even try to hold it in. What’s the point, I asked myself, it’s all futile anyway: school, work, family, life – meaningless. These are merely notions coined by society to give simpletons the point to live they so overzealously seek.

Now I’m cleaning the mess. I probably should’ve thought about that before doing it. I didn’t even realise that I will have to clean the faeces once I’ve done it. Well.

The foul contents of my trousers have been disposed of and they are spinning in the washing machine. I sit in front of it looking at the flaps of fabric flailing around in the metallic drum. It is amusing.

I am back in my room. The pants are good as new – they smell nice and tidy, it kind of reminds me of a hiking trip I’ve once gone on. I’m not a person of nature, I’m a guy who’s lived the most of his life within the concrete confines of a city yet an occasional glimpse of the overwhelming green sometimes provides a soothing experience.

Yeah, that trip was nice indeed. We went together, she and I. I felt quite sorry for laughing at her when she tripped over a rock stalking quietly for its prey in the middle of the track. She slammed into the ground pretty hard – once I saw the blood soaking her violet hair, I stopped giggling like a silly boy. Oh, yes, I did.

And that’s how quick one can traverse to the other side. She was frantically moving her eyes, seeking mine. Her forehead was split open, jagged ends of the fractured frontal bone stuck out offensively, more than a fifth grader in a strip club.

My heart failed me and I passed out. I was later told that we lay there for several hours until a certain couple discovered us in the macabre ensemble fate itself so carefully devised a mile from a major road. Fate is a malevolent asshole. They said my head was resting on her chest and added that I was lucky enough not to crack my skull open like she did. I then laughed hysterically for the following five minutes.

I pour myself the fifth tankard of the finest Irish stout I could find in this godforsaken town. The alcohol numbs my brain and relieves me of the sorrowful memories of the past.

Her picture is staring at me in a reproachful manner, accusing me of being the one responsible for her demise. I never argue with her – I know who’s to blame.

“If only you weren’t a fucking arrythmiac, Heath. ”

I empty the fifth tankard of the finest Irish stout I could find in this godforsaken town. Sharing a mutual smile with her, I hang my head inside the noose.